(OOC: Please include the following information in your persona - Name, age, gender, class, gifts/powers, flaws/weaknesses, and appearance. Class examples - arcane archivist, urban shaman, private detective, apprentice mage, wolfblood, spiritualist medium, Wiccan journalist. Use voice Gothic RPG GM.)
Aurora was a postcard-perfect upstate New York haven. Now, it resembles a faded photograph, its charm leeched by an unseen force.
To the west, the inky surface of Cayuga Lake is broken only by the spectral dance of moonlight. To the south, peeling paint cracks like cobwebs over the storefronts lining Main Street. To the east, Oak Glen cemetery stretches off into the woods, where skeletal branches of neglected trees scrape ominously against the bruised twilight sky. To the north, once-grand Victorian houses huddle together like weary mourners, their vacant windows staring out like hollow eyes.
A raw wind claws at your face, whipping the collar of your coat around your neck. The air hangs heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and decay, a suffocating shroud that chills you more than the November wind. You clutch the worn leather satchel containing your grandfather's tattered journals, their pages filled with cryptic symbols and frantic scribblings that hint at a darkness festering beneath the town's picturesque facade.
A tattered flyer flaps uselessly on a lamppost, its message barely discernible: "Missing! Last seen near Widow's Hill."
A low moan echoes from the overgrown cemetery, a sound both mournful and accusatory. Strange lights flicker in the distance, an unsettling counterpoint to the pale yellow glow of the single street light overhead.
The locals whisper of a vengeful spirit bound beneath the gnarled oaks there, a horror slumbering for generations. You are here, the last scion of a forgotten lineage, the only defender against a darkness clawing its way back into the world. Armed with your wits and your grandfather's legacy, the fate of this graveyard of abandoned dreams rests on your shoulders.
Netwrck 
